Several years ago, my friend and I were driving through a stretch of farmland in Wilcox, Arizona. Cotton was growing everywhere.
“Look at all that cotton!” I exclaimed.
“Have you ever picked cotton?” my friend asked.
“Nope,” I replied.
“Every black person in America should pick cotton at least one time. That way we won’t forget how things used to be,” she said.
She pulled over, stopped the car and we hopped out. My friend kicked off her shoes. I kept mine on. My shoes sunk into the damp ground. I finally had to carry my shoes.
After we walked a short distance, my friend suddenly bent down and nimbly plucked a boll of cotton from one of the plants growing in a row nearest to her.
I followed suit. As I clumsily lifted the cotton boll from the plant, something sharp pricked my finger, “Ouch!” I said.
I pulled my fingers away from the plant. The cuticle on my middle finger was bleeding. It stung.
“You have to get your “picking” technique down ‘cause cotton plants have sharp points that’ll make your fingers bleed,“ she said.
“Now you tell me,” I muttered, sucking on the end of my throbbing finger.
I stooped down and gingerly plucked a boll of cotton from another plant, being careful not to let my fingers get jabbed by its sharp points.
I was surprised how dirty the cotton was. Earlier, when we were driving past the field, the bolls looked like white puffs of cotton floating on a sea of green.
“This cotton is filthy, “ I shouted to my friend who was already halfway up the row. She had bolls of dirty cotton sticking out of her pants pockets.
“Well, the cotton has to be washed and dyed,” my friend said.
“You don’t say,” I replied but my mind was on something else. I cupped my hands over my eyes to shield them from the glare of the sun, as I surveyed row after row of cotton, imagining what it was like to for my grandparents and parents to work in these fields.
“Girlfriend, it’s hot!” I said fanning my face with my hands.
“Alright, Let’s go!” she said walking toward me.
“What are you going to do with all that cotton?” I asked.
“Probably wash it, air dry it and use it to remove make-up,” she said.
“Well, I’m scared of you “Miss Nature Girl”” I said and I meant it. My friend had some serious country living skills.
“ What are you going to do with your one, little piece of cotton?” she asked snickering.
“Keep it as a souvenir,” I said, “To remind me of what I don’t want to do again.”
Once we got in the car, I decided I didn’t need a boll of cotton to remind of the hardships and struggles black Americans had endured. Those memories were part of my DNA. I rolled down the car window and let it blow away.
